The Dragon: 500 Themes
by bonney
Summary: A series of short drabbles based on a Livejournal challenge. Romance/friendship/angst/AU/whatever I feel like writing.
1. Introduction

The following are a series of drabbles that I will sporadically update depending on how often I write them. All ideas/prompts are from here on Livejournal, and I've been trying to see how many I can do. All are One Piece, pairings are usually random, though I tend to write ones that I like. Feel free to suggest pairings or whatever you'd like to see!

**Current:** Law/Bonney, Crocodile/Vivi, Eustass Kid/Perona, Bonney/Paulie, Crocodile/Law


	2. 9: Sensation of Loss

The sensation of loss was quite the crippling one, wasn't it?

She had never thought much about cliches, because oddly enough they had never applied to her. Until now, that is. "you don't know what you have until it's gone." She hadn't appreciated him enough at all. He had always pushed her away and sometimes she would just go right back over to him, but other times she would let her eyes water and she would fly off in a frenzy, locking herself away and crying for hours.

She had known all along that his harsh words were always meaningless. He spoke without thinking most of the time, and truthfully his sharp tongue was one of his most prominent features. He was capable of spitting venom at the drop of a hat in the form of a carefully worded sentence, but despite everything he was capable of saying, his words to her were never more than "you're annoying" or "stop crying" or "you're ugly, shut up" (which very well could have been the worst).

Surprisingly enough, he would usually come to her later, fumbling over an apology. Those had always seemed to be the hardest for him, even moreso than kind words. He would stumble, and then he would get flustered and eventually angry. But she wouldn't care—she would throw her arms around his neck all the same and cling to him like he'd been gone for years.

When they finally found each other after a two-year separation, they were both different, but still the same, somehow. He was sporting a glimmering metal arm in place of the one he'd lost and a face full of scars, whereas she wore her long, thick hair down (which he liked very much, but was too stubborn to say) and seemed to have a different air of confidence about her. The loss of his arm had scared her; she became acutely aware of just how dangerous things were where he went, and she didn't like it. She wanted him to stop, to stay with her, where he would be safe.

He had gotten angry at that.

He had gotten angry, and he had left.

She hadn't known then that that was the last time that she would see him. She had floated off in a huff, thinking that he would come back whenever he was done being angry. Days passed, then weeks, and as luck would have it, she happened to be passing through a town square as a public execution was televised. She didn't care much for the news or about who was captured or executed, so by force of habit she never paid too much attention.

Until now, of course.

Out of the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of a chunk of steel on the screen and she turned her head instinctively, and as she got a look at the execution stand she let out a shrill cry, a testament to the sheer horror that had overtaken her body.

He was still fighting, struggling against the restraints as best as he could as the blades were pressed to his neck. His mouth was moving, undoubtedly dripping with words venomous enough to corrode the wood he was kneeling on.

The swords were raised. She couldn't hear anymore, there was only a deafening buzz.

A beat; he writhed in one final protest against the marines.

The swords came down.

She didn't really feel anything anymore. Only the same emptiness she had started with.

The sensation of loss was, undoubtedly, one of the stronger, more staggering emotions she had ever experienced. It was about on the same level as affection and adoration, but she no longer had those. She didn't really have anything anymore, did she?


	3. 150: Silent Watcher

They no longer speak.

Not regularly, at least. A quickly scrawled letter here, a static-filled den den mushi call there, but nothing that could be considered consistent in the least. But he didn't mind too much, not really. He was used to being alone. He had spent the majority of his life alone. Maybe not physically, per se, but mentally, emotionally. He had always been alone. But, again, he didn't mind.

That had changed, for a time, when he met a sprightly young rookie who didn't seem to want to leave him be. Their relationship was strained at first—if it could even be called a relationship at all. He hadn't liked the younger man. He had found him a nuisance, nothing more. But it seemed that he was the type to become more accepting of someone the more they pestered him, because before he knew it, the rookie was never anywhere else. And, surprisingly enough, the former warlord didn't mind too much.

Things have changed, and the rookie is gone now. He has gone to continue his journey, a quest to find the famed treasure. He travels frequently, and consistent contact is inconvenient. The ex-warlord understands. As a newly appointed warlord, the rookie has a lot on his shoulders. He does not expect to hear from him frequently.

This does not mean that he has forgotten. He still watches over him, in his own ways. He pays close attention to the newspapers, with one name in mind. (However, he does not miss the headline announcing the death of a female rookie—but he chooses not to mention it when they do happen to speak.) He listens to radio broadcasts, and he pays closer attention to the news. He keeps his eyes open for naval announcements, execution dates being set, bounty updates—

They no longer speak. But that does not mean that he no longer keeps a watchful eye.


	4. 34: Nightmare

In her nightmares, she is alone.

Everything is dark-the light in her life has gone out. Or he has left; sometimes she isn't really certain. Other times she knows exactly where the light has gone. Away from her. That's all that matters, really. He is no longer with her, and everything is dark. She cannot see her hand in front of her face, but she can see lurking silhouettes in the distant darkness.

She has never in her life needed or wanted the protection of a man. But she feels vulnerable when she is without him. Her entire life, she has been independent, sturdy on her own two feet, and perfectly capable of protecting herself. But when it comes to him, she wants his protection, rather than needs it. She feels safe in his presence. She does not want to lose him.

Some nights, he has grown tired of her, and moved on with his life. Others, he simply grows tired of the particular levels of stress that their relationship places on him. Others still, he meets someone new. These are the nightmares that hurt the most. Because while she may not be the best for him, she knows with full certainty that he is the best for her.

He is her rock, her shield, the north star in an endless night sky. He keeps her grounded, he keeps her safe, he makes sure that she is constantly aware that she is loved. He is the light at the end of her darkness.

This is not the case in her nightmares, because in her nightmares, she is completely and utterly alone.

On nights like these she will wake up with a start, her skin glistening with a cold sweat and her breath fast and labored. She will look over at the other side of the bed, afraid that her nightmares will have come true and that he will be gone. She is always wrong. He is always there.


	5. 66: Why They Call It Falling

"It's scary, you know? Thinking about it."

"Nma ... a lot of things are scary, aren't they?"

Paulie paused, shrugging in response to the president's words. He guessed so. The world was full of scary things, as childish as that thought was. Other people could be scary. The great blue sea in and of itself could be scary. Getting old, sickness, dying-all were things that could send people into a fit of nervousness.

"I guess I'm just not used to it. No one's ... ever made me like this. Ever. I don't know what I'm supposed to do."

Iceburg didn't reply. He nodded silently, fussing over a pile of papers that he was adamantly ignoring on his desk. He held his finger out for Tyrannosaurus to hold onto, and Paulie watched. He wasn't really expecting answers, he was just looking for someone to listen. Because god knew he couldn't talk to _her_ about this ... since it was because of her in the first place.

"I like it, but at the same time I don't. I feel vulnerable and really ... kinda stupid. Like I'm stumbling over everything I do. I wanna impress, you know? I want her to lo-.. like me as much as I like her."

Iceburg nodded again, sitting back in his chair as he opened his palm for the tiny creature to settle on his lifelines. He took his glasses off and placed them on the pile of paper, glancing to his vice president. "There's a reason they call it falling. Nma ... so you should let it happen. If she's dealt with you and everything you come with so far-" He pauses, flashing the blond a knowing smile. "-then she has every intention of catching you."


	6. 138: Cabin by the Sea

They say that a woman becomes a mother when she conceives, whereas a man does not become a father until he holds his child for the first time.

This cliché rang true for them, as well—initially, children or even a proper family had not been in their plans for the future. Frankly, they did not even have many plans for the future. Things were complicated for them; they both knew that their relationship could be torn apart at the drop of a hat and they also knew that it would only cause pain to map out a future that wouldn't necessarily be a possible reality.

This did not mean that they were unwanted, per se—she had always wanted a family; big or small, it didn't matter. But things hadn't worked out that way, for she had fallen for someone for whom children were inconvenient. On his end, he would not have opposed children, had the circumstances been different. He had often entertained the thought of having a child, but never saw it as a possibility. Something of that responsibility did not mesh with his lifestyle.

Things changed, intentionally or not.

Years later and they found themselves living a life that neither of them would have ever predicted; situated comfortably on a secluded island in the great blue sea with a beach that went on for miles, where there was neither an end to the sea nor a beginning to the sky.

She sat on the beach, her feet buried in the sand as she watched a dark-haired child with vibrant eyes splashing about in the shallow waters. She could feel a presence somewhere behind her and she did not need to turn around to know who it was—a father wanting to keep an eye on both of his beloveds. "Come sit."

He did not hesitate, settling his much larger body next to hers. They were silent, though out of the corner of his eye he could see a bright, happy smile on the fragile face next to him, and he allowed a small smirk to grace his own features. He had not planned this life, but now he could not see himself living any other way.

They had their own, private world—the former princess of a desert kingdom, a man who had once aspired to be king, and their unexpected (but certainly not unwelcome) son.


	7. 195: Somewhere

This one features a certain pair of supernovas, but I think if you pay attention you can figure out who without me naming names!

* * *

He could still feel it.

The sensation of her lips on the thick muscles of his neck, on his broad shoulders, on the planes of his chest. They were soft, and she was warm. He remembered the feeling of the tiny hoop just below her eye brushing against him, cold in comparison to her warmth. It had all been nice; he hadn't realized just how nice it was at the time. Everything had been taken for granted—but he took everything for granted, didn't he?

Looking back, he wished he hadn't been so confrontational. Maybe they could have spent less time arguing and more time enjoying each other's company. She had been confrontational, too—he wouldn't let all the blame for that fall onto his shoulders. But … he could have tried a little harder, maybe, to not start fights. He liked fighting, he liked winning. He wouldn't ever admit to it, but he often went out of his way to start fights. A crass comment here, an insult there. He'd deny doing it until his dying day. But everyone knew him knew better.

And know him she had. She had managed to get under his skin and into his head before he even knew what was happening. He hadn't wanted it, and he resisted. He didn't want to become vulnerable to anyone; not even his first mate knew everything about him. The person who knew the most was his right hand, the masked soldier who kept him on his feet. He wasn't going to let his rival, some aggravating brat, into his head. He wasn't going to let her know who he was.

She had found out anyway. And, in turn, he had found out about her. There were more similarities than he had expected, and somehow, someway, they had become friendly at the very least. Their relationship did not progress as relationships normally do; he grew tired of her talking one day (truthfully, he was probably growing tired of everything that day) and no matter how many times he hissed at her to shut up, she kept going. Becoming even more fed up, he had (and he remembered it entirely clearly, like he had done it just this morning) ducked down, roughly putting his mouth to hers.

It had worked, if nothing else. She had stopped talking.

He remembered pausing there, with their lips pressed together. As he cracked an eye open he saw her expression, surprised and maybe a little distressed. But (much to his own surprise) he felt hers moving, hesitantly reciprocating against his. He froze; he had no notion of what he was supposed to do next—he hadn't thought that far ahead. He had tried to pull away but her hands cupped his face, holding him in place until he finally managed to break away, face heated and mumbling halfhearted curses under his breath.

But she didn't stop—she kissed him again, and again after that. It was like she couldn't stop once she had gotten a taste, and he soon realized that he didn't particularly mind.

He still remembered it. The taste of her mouth, the taste of her skin, the feel of her body moving against his—the memories were all vivid. He had lost all of it so quickly. He didn't let his crew see that he was bothered by it. He had an image to keep up, didn't he? The Captain.

"I'll be back, alright? I'll see you later."

It was the last thing she'd said to him. He didn't know where she was going, he hadn't cared. It was just somewhere.

But later never came.


	8. 23: Remember Me

"Remember me."

He had said it to her as though he had known what was going to happen. But that was impossible, wasn't it? There was no way for him to anticipate what was to come. Crocodile was neither clairvoyant nor interested in such frivolities—he didn't pay any mind to things such as palm reading or fortune telling. He didn't believe in that. So why on earth had he said such a thing to her?

It was murmured, as he held her. The exchange was brief; she hadn't expected it to be the last. Thinking back, the tiniest of details were sticking out in her mind. The fact that he'd said farewell; it was an ominous word choice, almost. He'd told her to behave, to stay happy. It was almost as though he'd known that he wasn't going to make the trip back. But that was impossible. Of course it was impossible. If she said it enough, maybe she'd begin to believe it.

Vivi frowned. Her eyes were dry, they had been for a few days now. She'd exhausted herself of tears very quickly. Now the pain just weighed down on her, a constant reminder that she was alone in a big, ornate mansion that wasn't exactly hers. She'd done her fair share of exploring the rooms that had previously yet to be explored, she had spent a healthy chunk of time curled up in his coats, trying desperately to cling to whatever she had left of him.

It was difficult—he had never kept too many terribly personal belongings. Most things were kept at arm's length, aside from the small handful of things in his (their?) personal bedroom. She sifted through those at least once a day. His rings were far too big for her, though she wore them anyway. A spare hook sat nestled in the corner of the closet, safely tucked away under the heavy variety of lavish coats.

They were warm. She had taken to sleeping in them.

She didn't know what she was supposed to do. This was her life now; she didn't have a kingdom to go back to, anymore. She had given it up. It wouldn't be right to reappear as though nothing had happened. Was she supposed to live in this enormous place by herself? She would have the wani, of course, but they couldn't talk to her. Carue was there, but … that wasn't the same as human company. Vivi would figure that out.

His coats were warm, the sheets still carried his scent. She would remember him—there was no way she couldn't.


End file.
